she painted her soul with purple and crimson,
and streaked her arms with an perpetual black,
and planned a war like that.
she sat silent and surly,
slowing waiting for the time to strike and kill.
she listened to the cellos sing and weep
and decided that she might be waiting a long time.
she set up her defenses neatly and with precision.
she watched out of a small porthole
as the rockets and gunshots glared
her nails digging out blood from her fists,
and became restless there,
craving the taste of flesh against her teeth and
bones against her bullets
and she felt the need to move and run and fight.
but she wasn't allowed into the battle,
because she was a woman,
and this was a mans' war.
her supposed femininity a sign of weakness her in twisted society
her soul began to break as she sat in the corner at her porthole,
shattering into harsh shards of anger,
then engulfing in flames,
then into a painful low burning fire,
before reducing into a small pile of
purple and red ash.
it seemed there was nothing left.
maybe she should give up.
something in her sparked.
and the flames of her soul rekindled.
and it rose as a Phoenix,
pasted back by the sweet syrup of her strength,
and she fought.
and she ran.
and the blood stained her dress
and she won.
claiming vengeance on
the whole of humanity.
